


Peace Sought, Peace Found

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Canon Related, Drugs, Episode Related, M/M, Season/Series 02, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:51:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Edmund is tempted by the promises of heroin.Post-Season 2, Episode 1.





	Peace Sought, Peace Found

In his unoccupied hours, peace eluded him. Solitude bestowed no tranquility. Instead, Edmund’s quiet time passed in the constant company of shameful moments. The memory of those moments pressed upon his chest, clasped a cold hand around his throat, and forced his eyes to water.

Prone on his cot, he blinked at the ceiling of his office. He had come to know the progression of light patterns on its surface. The path of moonlight. More familiar to him of late than his own bedroom.

He squeezed his eyes shut with such force and effort that, within several moments, they began to ache.

The face of a young girl appeared there, behind his eyelids. She wore her hair in a neat plait--too blonde to be Mathilda. Her eye color, not quite the same. Besides, he knew his girl, his precious, lost daughter, and he knew, as soon as he saw her, that _this_ girl could not provide the return to normalcy--the return to his _life_ \--that he craved.

His heart split, the fissure reverberating through his body as he pulled his blanket around his shoulders. The memory of Emily’s pale, tear-streaked face appeared in his mind. Her voice echoed in his ears.

 _“How_ dare _you! I_ said _to you, Edmund! I_ told _you that I could not bear it if--”_

_“Yes, yes, I know! But I thought--”_

_“You_ thought? _Well, if you_ thought, _Edmund, then you_ must _have considered all the--” She stopped to gather herself. “I cannot look at you. Get out.”_

 _“And go_ where _, Emily? This is my_ home."

 _“I care not. To the public house. To your_ station _house. You choose. I cannot look upon you another second. We are dead, Edmund. We are dead like our daughter is dead.”_

As he recalled her words, a sharp pain pierced his chest, his lungs, his spine.

He gasped. He could not bear it.

Throwing himself off his cot, he made for the door. Within minutes, he burst into the Dead Room. The door slammed. The sound echoed in the empty room.

No bodies, alive or dead, occupied it. The lamps were dark. Jackson had left hours previous.

Edmund strode to the counter. Jackson’s primary work surface. He spared a glance for Jackson’s equipment--the microscope, shallow round dishes, plates of glass--but focused his attention on Jackson’s work of the day. A term used loosely. “Work.” A needle. A flexible tube for tying around the arm. And a bottle of homemade heroin.

He braced himself against the counter and bowed his head. His breath blustered out of his mouth as he looked upon the tools that called to him with the promise of a peaceful, painless escape.

His mind replayed the only desperation he had ever known more sympathetic and pathetic than his own.

_“I found her like this, Reid. In the Bear.” Jackson struggled to hold Emily, his arms wrapped around her tightly, pinning her arms to her body. She writhed and screamed. She tried to stomp on Jackson’s feet and break away from him._

_Emily directed a hard stare in Edmund’s direction. “You did this, Edmund. You did this.”_

_Her words struck him with all the force and weight of a steam engine. He stumbled backwards and caught himself on the railing of the station house stairs. Tearing his eyes away from his wife, he turned towards Drake, who stood at the top of the stairs. “Call for a doctor,” he said, his voice ragged._

_Drake disappeared into the station, past a throng of officers._

_Edmund’s attention swung back to Emily, who went limp in Jackson’s arms. He went to them, taking Emily from Jackson, trying to support her, but eventually sank with her to the street. He knelt beside her and tried to gather her against him. Emily struck at his chest with her fists._

_“You betrayed me, Edmund. You betrayed me. You lied to me.”_

_“I’m so sorry, Emily. I am. I love you. Please, darling, I love you. I am so sorry. I thought you…” He caught her fists, wrapped his hands around her wrists and held her still. “I wanted to fix it. I wanted to...I thought you...I thought you_ hated _me, Emily.”_

_“I do.”_

_His breath stalled. His entire body froze. He nearly dropped her into the street._

_“I do, Edmund. I hate you. I_ hate _you. You killed our girl.”_

 _“I--I did not. I would never. Emily,_ please. _”_ Tears blurred his vision, transforming Emily into a muted-color water-painting.

_“You killed her. You killed us. You killed her.”_

Those were the last three words Emily spoke to him. They echoed in his head. _You killed her. You killed her._

Edmund stared down at the needle, the tube, the bottle. His eyes studied the drug that, according to Jackson, promised to deliver him to a peaceful, pleasurable world. _Warm in your bed with a woman clasped beside you. No call to ever move more._

It was the world he wanted. The one he had once. But one he longed to have again.

Closing his eyes, he hugged himself. He lowered his head, chin to chest. His fingers clamored for Jackson’s drug--for Blush Pang’s heroin. Then, he finally grasped the needle. He spared no thought for _ethics._ He cared not for his _duty_ \--to the people of the city, to his officers, to himself.

He thought of Emily, on her hands and knees in the gutter. He thought of his girl, disappearing beneath the black surface of the Thames.

He scrambled for relief.  

Behind him, a rat squealed. Shrill. High-pitched. Jarring.

“ _Shut_ up,” he said, taking up the needle. He filled the syringe, casting sideways glances at the rat. “You _do_ not know. You _can_ not.”

He had never before _prop_ erly administered an intravenous drug. He had injected heroin into another person, yes. But properly? Not quite. When he had delivered a dose of Jackson’s homemade heroin to Linklater, he had thrust the needle into the officer’s forearm without making an effort to locate a vein.

But now, he took greater care. He had watched Jackson from the door of the Dead Room. He had watched him secure the band around his arm. He had watched him tap the crook of his elbow. And he had watched him pierce the skin--inject the drug into his vein.

Then he had watched Jackson’s head fall back, his eyelids droop, his whole body slacken.

With breathless determination, Edmund stripped himself of his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt. And fell into the nearest chair, copying Jackson’s ritualistic preparations as best he could. His fingers shook, struggling to tie the band around his arm. He pulled one end with his teeth. His hand gripped the other end, pulling, tightening.

Tears carved a hot path down his face as he filled a syringe with Jackson’s heroin.

He would break no law. He would hurt no one. Did he not deserve a rest? A numb, painless rest?

Raising the needle, he stared at its tip. He deserved this.

A voice erupted from the doorway. “No! Reid, stop!”

Edmund turned his head and saw his friend. “Jackson?” He whispered the word in disbelief. Thin, feeble, and pained.

“Jesus, Reid, what in the hell are you _think_ ing?” Jackson practically leapt across the room. He stole the syringe from his hand and emptied its contents onto the floor. He breathed hard. “This--Jesus, Reid, this is _not_ to be messed with. And I would certainly not have you--you of _all people_ \--fall under its spell. I would _not_.”

“Jackson, my…” He stared at Jackson. Helpless. He blinked. He inhaled to break the tightness in his throat. “My _wife_ …”

“Yeah.” Jackson frowned. “Yeah, I know.”

“You were _there_! You saw, Jackson. You saw _every_ thing! She hates me. She _blames_ me. She has been driven _mad_ because of _me._ ” Edmund’s hand trembled.

Jackson pursed his lips and shook his head.

“You do not agree?”

“I do not, Reid.” Jackson knelt before him. “The seeds of madness were planted by powers far beyond yours.”

“But I...I watered them, did I not?”

“Maybe.” Jackson sounded reluctant.

Perhaps it was Edmund’s imagination.

Jackson braced his shoulders. Held him in an almost-hug. “But, Reid, it was only because you spoke of a hope...a hope you wanted to share with the mother of your child. And that’s...no one can fault you for that, Reid.”

He searched Jackson’s eyes. “And what of my infidelity?”

“Not your best moment, I grant you.” Jackson’s hands slid along his shoulders and up his neck. Into his hair. Jackson cupped the back of his head. “But better men have succumbed to worse.”

Edmund’s chest deflated and he sagged into the chair, not feeling entirely comforted.

“But that’s no reason to walk this path,” Jackson said, cupping his face. “It offers comforts for a time, perhaps. But reality will only hit you harder when they fade and leave you cold and wanting.”

For a long while, Jackson stared at him. And Edmund stared back.

Finally, Jackson said, “Come on.”

Edmund cleared his throat. “To where?”

“Tenter Street. Come on.” Jackson grasped Edmund’s hand and pulled him from the chair.

Edmund resisted, throwing his weight backward. “I would rather seek the comforts of your heroin than those of one of your wife’s _girls_ , Captain.”

“No,” Jackson said, his voice heavy. “ _Je_ sus, Reid. That’s not--” Jackson exhaled and--again--reached for Edmund. “It’s just--you should sleep in a real bed, for once. With real blankets.”

Edmund studied him, then followed. Jackson smiled, his relief evident on his face. “But don’t go growin’ accustomed to this treatment,” Jackson warned.

A grin teased at Edmund’s mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied.

“Good.”

Just as Edmund began to relax, shock overtook him as Jackson pushed him against the wall and kissed him. Jackson’s hands pressed flat against his chest, his hip. Jackson’s lips slipped and slanted over his mouth. Jackson’s tongue darted forward, touched and _tasted_ his, and withdrew. All in the span of several short, dizzying seconds.

Edmund’s body heaved with his breaths, even after Jackson stepped backwards.

With a soft, yet rough, voice, Jackson asked, “D’you still want to come back with me?”

“With you?” Edmund repeated, dazed, unsteady. He touched the wall behind him to find balance.

Jackson met his eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he replied, immediate and sure. He had heard Jackson’s initial question. Had understood his implications. Wanted more of whatever Jackson had to offer. “Yes.”

Jackson nodded, and pulled him by the hand toward the stairs, towards the door.

Edmund followed, all the way to Tenter Street, where Jackson offered him a bed. He climbed in alone. He contracted around the tightness in his chest. Curled under the bedclothes. Hugged the spare pillow.

Jackson joined him ten minutes later, wrapping his arms around Edmund’s waist and laying his hands flat against his ribs.

Edmund closed his eyes and leaned into Jackson’s body, allowing himself to be pulled backwards.

He breathed easier. He relaxed.

He fell into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
